


In vino veritas, in aqua sanitas

by calligraphypenn



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:58:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6889066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/pseuds/calligraphypenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders takes a bath, which changes everything. As his affections are vied for amongst various members of the party, Fenris comes to realize that Anders only has eyes for him. As seen on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The worst thing about Kirkwall, Fenris had long ago decided, was probably the smell.

Not even the sea could cover the smell of cooking fires, sewage, too many people living in close quarters, and a sharp metallic smell that made his nose sting. If human misery had a smell, Kirkwall was redolent with it.

Tevinter had public baths that were widely attended, and how well-kempt you were was a sign of prosperity and pride. Kirkwall, on the other hand, despite being the City of Chains, showed its equality in one regard, and that was in the ragged appearance of all its people. Everyone from the lowest beggar in Darktown to the Chantry sisters looked and smelled as if they hadn’t bathed for weeks—and they probably hadn’t. Fenris hated his homeland, and would cut off a lyrium—covered limb before going back, but he admitted when it came to hygiene, Tevinter was like a finely-scented Orlesian maiden to Kirkwall’s smelly churl.

Even his companions didn’t escape the Kirkwall curse, and honestly, sometimes he was glad that Hawke took them on so many dangerous missions, because it kept everyone reasonably bathed. Merill was fine—a fresh green scent, but elves never smelled as bad as humans, for some reason that Fenris hadn’t ever deigned to think about. Isabella usually smelled a little burnt, like she’d stood too close to a smoking fire. Hawke could reek on occasion, and Fenris occasionally let him take down the squelchiest-looking enemies, because at least that meant a bath was in his future. Usually.

Varric used too much cologne.

But by far, by far the worst of all was Anders.

The first moment Fenris had set foot into Darktown, his eyes swam and his throat stung. He could barely keep himself from retching, and the stench settled like a physical thing into his stomach, one that didn’t leave for hours.

The abomination was like the manifestation of the smell, and not only that, he seemed to carry it with him. Whenever the healer was summoned from Darktown, in his hideous patched green-and-yellow, he emanated a faint miasma of rotting human fluids. Not only that, but he looked unhealthy—patchy stubble, deep blue shadows beneath sunken yellow eyes, pale and blotchy white skin—and auburn hair, greasily scraped back into a stubby tail.

Looking at his other companions, who were all various degrees of lovely, Fenris thought surely, at the very least Hawke could have made a better aesthetic choice for a healer. The thought made him snort while on missions, and when the abomination in question would look at him quizzically, he made sure to glare back.

And also, to take his breaths away from the healer, because vishante kaffas, did Anders have no sense of smell?

While running an errand on the Wounded Coast one day, Fenris was fending off two feral mabari, calm and in the buzzing, blue-tinged concentrated fury that accompanied combat, when from the corner of his eye he spied the healer falling. Before he could leap over to save the annoying, smelly mage, Isabella was there, and Fenris turned his attention back to the snarling dogs.

Anders had tripped into a muddy, sandy depression in the ground, and was slicking off mud with his fingers, looking tired and irate. Fenris smirked and turned away, knowing that the next time he saw the man he’d at least be spared a total olfactory assault…

…only to stare in disbelief at Anders two days later, as the abomination sat at their Wicked Grace table, splashes of mud still decorating his trousers and coat.

Anders went to the bar. Fenris turned to Isabela, and wordlessly gestured, too full of disgust even to articulate.

But Isabella just stared after Anders a little sadly.

“He used to be very vain, you know,” she said. Fenris stared at her—he’d never seen such a look on her face before.

“Do you mean he wasn’t always disgusting and diseased looking?” he said.

Isabella just shrugged. “He was actually very pretty,” she said. “I think it wasn’t so bad before that friend Karl of his, you know.”

“Who?” Fenris said, but then Anders was back, and Fenris had to concentrate on not physically gagging at the odor—the last time he’d done that Hawke had looked at him reproachfully for an entire hand as Anders had stiffened and silenced.

 

Fenris shifted from foot to foot, waiting outside Hawke’s mansion. Hawke had never been a morning person, and when Fenris had pounded on the door, a black head of hair had greeted him by leaning out one of the upper windows and had muttered something about “The Maker take you, give me five minutes.”

His gaze sharpened on an unfamiliar figure coming up the road, but then Isabela opened the door next to his elbow, and was filling him in—unwillingly, he would maintain—on her and Hawke’s bedroom activities. Then her voice cut off and turned into a long, low whistle.

Fenris looked sharply, one hand going to his sword—damn Isabela for being distracting—when what he saw made his hand clench on the air and his jaw go slack.

Anders had bathed. Anders had done much more than bathe. And now he stood there scowling as both Fenris and Isabella took in the changes.

He had shaved, revealing a long, fine chin. He was not wearing the ragged yellow-green, instead he wore a voluminous blue coat which looked worn but crisp and clean. Instead of letting the coat flap around his waist, the apostate had wrapped a wide length of black cloth tightly around his midsection several times, belting it then snugly. His leggings were dark brown, nearly black, and the familiar boots crawled up his calves, up to thighs that were much more defined in the tighter fabric.

His face was free from smudges and blood, and even the lines around his eyes seemed fewer. Most eye-catching of all was the glory of his hair.

Fenris had wondered at the Blondie moniker, but now he understood. Untangled and cleaned, it hung down his back much further than the scraggly ponytail, and it was a rich red gold. Fenris could almost feel it in his fingers already, curled and caught between his gauntlet, a thick silken weight. It was hanging loosely down his neck, most of it curling slightly, and Fenris was lost in contemplation.

“Stop it,” Anders said furiously as they stared. “It’s not that big of a difference.” With so much clean skin showing, Fenris could watch his blush climb up his neck.

“Sweet thing, it is,” Isabela said, and Fenris stepped closer for another look.

His nails were clean, he noticed idly, and then the wind changed.

It caught the tips of Anders’ hair, and Fenris breathed in.

Sandalwood and myrrh–

Fenris was standing in a courtyard, familiar, while a woman did the laundry–

She smiled, holding out the bar of soap–

Fenris’ head jerked back, but before he could lose his nerve, he’d caught the abomination around the wrist.

“That smell—what is it?” he asked, and Anders tilted his head down at him, no fear in his eyes but there was a widening there, and a deep hitched breath. It was a look that Fenris recognized, now that he was looking for it, now that he had let himself look.

How could he have mistaken thwarted desire for hatred, all this time? He deliberately let go of the abomination’s wrist, unsure of what to do with this new information.

“I went to the new bathhouse,” Anders said to Isabella over his head, as Fenris turned away.

“The owner’s from Tevinter, and her daughter’s just manifested her powers—I’m teaching her some basic control,” he continued.

“And what does that have to do with your transformation, Miss Sits-in-the Ashes?” Isabella drawled.

“No pumpkin carriage or prince though,” Anders said, mock-mournfully. “She wouldn’t let me into their house till I’d spent an hour in the baths. Then her daughter tried to wash my clothes, but she said they came apart at the seams when she scrubbed them.”

Fenris imagined a young Tevinter woman—a mage, he supposed, adding a wicked countenance and an evil laugh—burning the apostate’s rags in a bonfire in the back of the bathhouse.

“These were just extras they had,” the mage added. He jumped and slapped at Isabella’s hands when they came up to span his waist, defined by the black band, but not before Fenris was treated to a vision of her hands framing its narrowness, and he frowned at his own desire to do the same, to see if his hands could try and make a circle around his waist, to slide his hands around to the hem of the coat and lift–

“Well, Fenris for one can’t keep his eyes off you, so this is a wild success, I’d say,” Isabella said, and it was to the sound of Fenris and Anders shouting her down that Hawke stumbled out the door into.

“What’s this ruckus—Why, Anders, you clean up nice!”

Anders grinned at Hawke then, and was thus unprepared for when Hawke copped a feel.

Anders squawked and turned his face away, trying to pry Hawke’s hand off his waist, which loosened itself when Hawke found themselves dragged back by the scruff of their neck by a grim looking Fenris.

“It’s all right, Fenris,” Hawke assured him. “Me and Isabela had an agreement that if Anders ever got over his water allergy–”

“Ask first.” Was all Fenris said. “Come on, Anders,” he said, to the red-faced mage, who shot Fenris a look that was half-angry and half speculative before he fell into step behind the elf.


	2. Chapter 2

If anything, the mage was even more unbearable now that he was taking care of himself.

Things had always been on tenterhooks between them, he supposed, but he had long ago come to the conclusion that, even though there was genuine heat in their arguments, mostly they argued because they could. Fenris was still delighted that no matter what he said, there would be no punishment for it, and he could grudgingly admit that Anders probably had much of the same reasoning.

In any case, when Anders came long on Hawke’s little jaunts these days, he came in much-worn but clean clothing, each time saying that it was a gift from the mother of his young apprentice. And each time Fenris got too close, he got a noseful of the smell of sandalwood and mryhh.

It had awoken in him a flash of memory, and he was determined to find out why.

He was also determined to keep an eye on Isabela and Hawke, whose schemes to lure Anders into their clutches were getting more and more blatant. Anders would often respond in bad grace, then sidle a glance at Fenris. The first time Fenris had caught his eyes, incredulous, and Anders had frozen and looked away. Now Fenris simply pretended not to notice, and Anders would eventually look away anyway.

Fenris had always studiously kept himself clean. It had been a shock, fleeing Miranthous on his own, to find that the rest of Thedas didn’t care one whit for bathing or even washing one’s hair regularly. When he had traveled with Danarius there had always been the familiar trappings of Tevene life to accompany them. The baths in Tevinter were places where the upper class would relax, entertain, and make business deals. Though Fenris had never bathed in one before, he had stood in countless marble halls, perspiring from the steam, as his master talked with his cronies in one of the deep-set baths.

Fenris’ own house had its own smaller bath, and he took a secret pleasure in staying in the tub for hours, using up the heat rune sometimes in one day, and vindictively slopping water on the floor.

The mage seemed to also to realize that his luck had changed, and he was much more careful when on missions to not ruin his clothes or get splashed with gore. But he was Hawke’s companion, after all, so it was only a matter of time until the day that the mage stood covered in the blood and slime of three former dragonlings.

It was Anders’ newer blue coat that had taken the brunt of it, and Anders looked distraught as he stared at his charred, blood-black sleeves.

They were in one of the slaver caves on the coast, and where the cave had rung out with the sounds of battle a few moments before, now all was silence. Until…

“Anders,” Hawke sang out. “Anders, it looks like you need a bath! And guess what I own! A mansion! With a bath!”

Hawke sidled up to Anders, who was unwinding the cloth belt of his jacket with a face like a thundercloud.

“Anders, if you come to my house, I’ll let you use my…bath.”

“And then you can use his bed.” Isabela added, her eyes riveted on the strip of skin revealed as Anders finished unwinding his belt. “And then you can use my–”

“Hey!” Garrett complained as Anders flung the fabric in his face, before stomping out of sight at the end of the cavern.

“All right, wrong tactic,” Isabela said resignedly. “Fenris! Your turn.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fenris said, already following the mage.

He found Anders stripped to the waist, scrubbing at his skin with fistfuls of water from a murky pool.

”That’s vile,” Fenris said.

“For your information,” Anders said, not looking up. “Dragonling blood burns your skin after a while. But thanks for coming to mock me too.”

“Mock you?” Fenris said with surprise. T he mage surely didn’t think…

“None of you have any idea what it’s like living in Darktown,” Anders continued furiously. “And just when I get the chance to take a few regular baths, all of you—joking around, pretending to swoon—it’s not funny!”

“Joking?” Fenris said. “Mage, you can’t possibly—not even you are so dense.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because Anders looked at him then, and Fenris was struck. The strange phosphorescence of the caves flickered off of Anders’ pale skin, reddened in part by the dragonling blood now. His face was dirty—smudged with dirt and smeared blood, and the blue shadows under his eyes that couldn’t be wiped away. His eyes almost gleamed in the dark, like a cat’s.

“They are not joking about inviting you into their bed,” Fenris said roughly, not able to tear his eyes away. “Let me assure you of that.”

He tried not to think about it, but the images were striking—the sullen, unsmiling mage, being made to—no, coaxed, into pliancy by the two rogues, the sight of his face, reddened from exertion and warmth, looking up with dazed golden eyes, of breathing deeply the smell of sandalwood and myrrh–

Sandalwood and myrrh–

The dust of an arena, and the blue shadow of a tall spire falling over it, falling over a spill of blood, and he is triumphant–

“Fenris,” a voice said, breaking him from his reverie—from his memory, a part of him realizes, and Anders stood in front of him. His arms and chest are dripping, and he is holding his coat at arms length.

Fenris, the apparition in his head purred, and the mage’s body is so lovely, the curve of his waist everything Fenris thought it would be. It would just take one step forward to wrap his arms around him, to nuzzle beneath one ear, and finally touch that maddening fall of red gold hair.

“Move, Fenris! You’re blocking the way!” the very cranky, very real mage in front of him says.

Fenris moved, Then followed him back out to the main cavern.

“Oh, I was a very good girl in my last life, apparently,” Isabela said when they came back into sight. The mage, damn him, looked like he didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or laugh, but settled for gathering up his staff and bundling his coat against his chest primly.


	3. Chapter 3

“All right, that’s it,” Hawke said rising from the chair behind Anders’ desk. “It’s been three hours, somethings’ happened.”

Fenris silently agreed. It was already early afternoon, and Hawke had wanted to go to the Wounded Coast in the morning. Fenris and Isabela had met him at his mansion, and they had wiled away an hour waiting for Anders. Then they had gone to the clinic to find the healer, and had found it empty as well.

“Please, can we leave now?” Isabela said sadly. “Darktown smells so bad, and I’m getting dizzy.”

“You can go to the Hanged Man and see if he’s there, sound all right?,” Hawke said to her. “I’ll go to Lirene’s. Fenris—you don’t have to go anywhere, really. I can’t think of anywhere else he’d go. Meet me back at my house in an hour?”

The three of them parted ways at the Lowtown lift, and Fenris stood a moment drinking in deep breaths of sea air, trying to flush the raw stench of Darktown from his lungs.

He’d never admit it to Hawke or Isabela, but he was also fretting a bit about Anders. Sebastian had once asked him lowly why he’d never turned Merrill or Anders in to the Templars, and Fenris had shut him down sharply. Though the two mages were undoubtedly dangerous, turning them over to an entity that would mean death for either of them left a sour taste in his mouth. Also, it would leave a gaping hole in their motley group, and he knew that the imprisonment of either of the mages would devastate Hawke, Isabela, and Varric.

Fenris turned his feet towards Hightown, with nothing in mind but perhaps resting before meeting at Hawke’s again. He was in sight of the white spires and red banners when a throught struck him. His feet turned towards the Red Lantern district.

The new Kirkwall bathhouse was a discreet white stone building, that stood out nonetheless with its facade cleaned of centuries of smoke and graffiti. Even the typical murals had been painted over with white paint, and a painting of a steaming pool was skillfully applied instead.

For the illiterate, Fenris’ mind supplied, and his mood soured as he pushed open the wooden door.

Inside was a wood-paneled room, with a desk, and with a clerk who looked up as Fenris entered.

“Can I help you?” the clerk, an elf said. Fenris walked forward and the clerk’s eyes dropped on his sword. “Ser.”

Fenris took out a wooden token from his purse and handed it to the elf. Anders had dropped a fistful of them on the table at Wicked Grace night with a shrug, and when the elf examined it, his eyes widened in acknowledgment.

“Your friend is here already, I’ll show you to where, if that would please you?” the elf said courteously.

Without waiting from a response from Fenris, he stood up and pushed aside a slit curtain that hid a doorway from view on his right. Fenris followed him. The man’s voice and actions were polite but not slavish, and his smile purely professional instead of tinged with the fear that Fenris was accustomed to.

What a difference from Tevinter.

They passed down a smooth white corridor with several doors on either side. One door was much more ornate than the others, and other attendants were shuttling in and out.

“That leads to the main baths, but Ser Anders is in one of the private baths, the Blue bath,” the attendant said helpfully, showing Fenris that the wooden token was indeed painted blue on one side.

Fenris’ steps slowed a moment—he did not want to come in on the mage while he was bathing, kaffas—but already the elf had stopped in front of a blue-painted door that he unlocked with a key on his belt.

Inside was a spacious stone-lined room with a mirror, a table and another door—but no Anders. Fenris warily stepped inside, and the attendant gave a short bow.

“Please ring the bell cord should you require anything. Good day,” the attendant said, and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

First things first—Fenris had heard the door lock, and he turned to test it. It opened easily from the inside.

That set him a bit more at ease, and he was able to look around the room. His eyes were drawn towards the table, where, a stack of clothing sat, neatly folded. A long tunic, a boiled leather vest. A coat, again blue, like the one the mage had ruined last month. Black leggings, very long ones. And under the table the mage’s boots, but with the hanging buckle of the left one fixed, no longer tied on with linen bandage.

A stack of towels sat next to the door in the room. Fenris knocked on it. Then knocked again.

Fenris, aware that Hawke would have kittens if an hour past and both Fenris and Anders were not accounted for, pushed the door open into the bathing chamber.

The stone bathing chamber was very quiet, save for the dripping of water. Three small pools were set in the floor, and a cloudy window, tinted to not let wandering eyes intrude, shone in light that was refracted into a shimmer on the ceiling.

Anders was in none of the pools, and Fenris sighed with frustration and prepared to turn and leave. But as he did, he saw a whisper of movement in a darkened alcove in the back.

Moving on soundless feet, he strode forward, and when he was in sight he felt struck. He turned his face away as a blush began to climb his neck.

Tevinter bathhouses were often a place for relaxation as well as bathing, and thus people often slept after their baths upon smooth stone alcoves built for that purpose. It had always seemed as though it would be terribly uncomfortable to Fenris.

There Anders lay, head pillowed on a towel, completely dead asleep.

He was also completely naked.

Fenris sighed and looked away, and at the sound, Anders frowned and shifted. His cheeks and hands were brightly sun-reddened, but the rest of him was pale and smooth, save for freckles on his neck and shoulders—how would he have gotten those? His robed covered most of his skin, after all.

Anders’ body was a study in contrasts. His legs were long and muscular and his shoulders broad. But his stomach was rounded and smooth. His feet were long, but they looked soft, and Fenris didn’t doubt that if he walked barefoot over the same terrain Fenris did, they’d be cut to ribbons.

Feris had never seen him sleep, and the lack of energy from him was almost disturbing. He looked older as he slept—a furrow between his eyes. Perhaps it was his intensity that made him appear so much younger—but Fenris realized, staring at Anders, that the man was in his late thirties or older.

He made a pretty picture, lying on the alcove like he was on display. But he was obviously not close to waking up. As Fernris watched, Anders sighed and turned over, baring his back to Fenris—and an expanse of pale skin covered in a network of freckles, moles and scars had no right at all to be so appealing.

Fenris shifted from foot to foot, then abruptly turned and went back into the small dressing room. His face felt hot and red, and he was stuck with a vague sense of shame.

The worst part of it was, he could have Anders easily.

Fenris hadn't had any lovers, after his escape from Danarius, yet even to his eyes the intent way that Anders watched him, which had foolishly attributed wholly to hatred, was that of a starving man staring at a banquet.

Before, Fenris would not have even entertained the thought of sleeping with the mage, of touching him, even. But now that he was caring for himself, Ander seemed a different man—and he no longer aroused the nauseating mix of disgust and incredulous pity that seethed in Fenris when he lay eyes upon him.

It would be so easy to crook a finger to Anders, and watch as the other man’s face filled with shock and understanding—but the idea of the kind of relations they would have filled him with repugnance—how else could their encounters go, other than being a haze of snarling and anger? He didn’t want that.

He should step aside and let Hawke and Isabela have him.

Fenris leaned against the wall of the small room and sighed, crossing his arms.

But the mage wanted him. Kept turning down the offers of the noble and the pirate, and then looking at him, like he was hoping for a scrap from the banquet table, for the slightest thread of jealousy, of interest. It was utterly juvenile, like Anders had never learned to flirt past a basic level, and just stumbled along, looking at people with begging golden eyes.

Fenris beat the back of his head against the wall twice, softly.

He should go and tell Hawke that the mage was safe, not dead in a ditch for his purse or being hustled towards the Gallows.

He had to find a way to deal with this—craving, that Anders had inspired in him. It was like craving wine after a particularly trying day—he knew it was bad for him, knew it would make him sick the next day—but he wanted it nonetheless.

Being free meant he could make himself sick off of wine whenever he so chose, however.

He was no closer to thinking through the knotty problem when the door into the bathing chamber opened abruptly, and Anders stepped through, still naked as the day he was born.

Fenris hissed through his teeth in embarrassment before he could stop himself, and Anders went pale and then a deep red.

Fenris noted how the water had turned Anders’ hair a deep russet.

“What are you doing?” Anders croaked, his voice still rough with sleep.

Fenris couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to think on it any longer for the moment. He scooped up Anders’ tunic and threw it at him.

“Get dressed, you slept through our mission with Hawke today,” he said.

Anders hurriedly was putting on the tunic, when he stopped dead.

“How did you know I was—what time is it?”

“Be quick,” Fenris said curtly, before turning his back so that his eyes would not wander.

He had to bring this to a head somehow, it was becoming unbearable very quickly.


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris was incapable of putting it behind him.

Worse, the mage was starting to look appealing even after two days on Sundermount--tired, dirty and cranky. Isabela and Hawke had gone ahead to scout out the raider camp they were tapped to attack, and when Anders didn't emerge from his tent at the sounds of the others rising, Isabela had shaken her head and suggested they leave him until their return. Anders always slept so deeply when he was adventuring with Hawke and party—Fenris could understand. Anders was not safe in Darktown by himself, just as Fenris was not safe in the mansion. Having allies close by was reassuring, even in sleep.

So when Anders levered himself out of his tent in the morning gloaming, Fenris found himself hard-pressed to look away. The mage's hair was stiff with sweat after a whole day in the heat, and flattened on one side, but Fenris doubted his own hair looked much better. Anders had a hard time meeting his eyes, ever since their encounter at the baths, and was instead staring at the fire like it was offering answers to a long held question. Maybe to Anders it was, Fenris didn't know much about the practices of the Southern mages.

Anders was wearing a long green tunic that had some crude embroidery tracing up the front, and past staring dully at the fire he made so sign of movement. Despite his unkempt state, he looked soft and touchable in the morning light. Fenris, deciding to be daring, flung a bread roll at him.

The roll landed unerringly in Anders' lap, and Anders jumped.

“Eat,” Fenris said.

”Thanks,” Anders said peevishly, and starting chewing on the roll, with only a modicum more energy than before. “You're playful this morning,” he groused after a moment.

“Maybe its the view,” Fenris said off-handedly, gazing at him. Anders crammed the rest of the roll in his mouth and twisted around to look behind him, before sitting straight again and chewing mechanically, muttering a phrase through a mouthful of bread that sounded like “It's just trees.”

Had Anders really been a tomcat in his younger years？ Fenris was beginning to wonder if Isabela was lying to him.

“Where are Hawke and Isabela?” Anders asked, after he'd cleared his throat.

”Scouting ahead, they rose at dawn,” Fenris said, rustling through his pack to find his sword polish.

“Hmm,” Anders said, his eyes finally fixing on Fenris.

This was a side to Anders that Fenris had previously ignored, but without his staff and coat, as barefoot as Fenris himself, Anders seemed like a different person. It was hard to ignore his own growing attraction to Anders, and Fenris was tired of double-guessing himself and staring slack-jawed at the mage. It was time for action.

“You should come to my mansion tonight,” Fenris said, setting the polish down on the hilt of his sword, pressing the jar lightly in order to unscrew the cap.

“And why in the Maker's good graces would I do that,” Anders said. His voice pretended at nonchalance, but Fenris could see him stiffen, tense as a hunting hound.

Fenris paused for a moment, and met Anders' gaze. As he had thought it would, Anders' almond-colored eyes grew wide and disbelieving.

“You mean—you and I? Are you joking?” Anders sputtered.

Fenris felt his heart quail a bit, but he was sure it did not show on his face. “Have you not seen me, warning Hawke and Isabela off you at every turn?” he said. “Would I do that, if I did not have an interest? For that matter, would you turn them down if not for having your cap set on another?”

Anders sputtered for a moment. “'Set my cap on?' Am I a Ferelden milkmaid? Besides, I'm a little too old for what I suspect they get up to in bed. They'd break me.”

Fenris smirked then, but what he felt was not the usual scathing humor at Anders' misadventures, but rather a lighter feeling, watching the mage demur in the early morning light.

“If that's what you are afraid of, perhaps do some stretches before—”

“Who said I was afraid of you and your bed? Not me!”

“Before dallying with them, I was going to say,” Fenris said. “But I do have an interest. Must I lay a path of rose petals leading from Darktown to my home before you'll come to me?”

Anders paused then, and his face was clear as water. It was obvious Anders had rarely ever been handed the things he wanted before. Fenris wondered if he perhaps should have made Anders work to gain his favor. But if Anders' gaze on him was any hotter with longing, then one day he was going to set Fenris on fire—no hyperbole there.

Anders hesitated, then opened his mouth, looking uncharacteristically nervous, and Fenris instinctively relaxed his joints, taking a deep breath like he was about to take a blow in battle. He could take a rejection. Almost expected it, really.

Before Anders could respond, a piercing whistle echoed through the trees, followed by distant shouts.

Fenris lept to his feet. “That--”

“Was Hawke,” Anders finished, jumping to his feet with more grace than Fenris would give him credit for. He pulled on his boots with quick hands, and Fenris waited with mounting impatience until Anders snatched up his staff as well.

Fenris ruthlessly crushed down his thoughts and his momentary fears for Hawke, and Anders joined him at his side.

Fenris nodded tightly at the path ahead of them, barely visible in the underbrush, and began to run. If Anders could not keep up, then it was his problem, not Fenris'. For Hawke to resort for calling for help the situation had to be catastrophic.

Fenris' feet pounded along the path, and he could hear crackling from behind him, as if Anders was nearly keeping pace. He had long legs and a Warden's reflexes, perhaps Fenris would not be leaving him behind after all.

They had come across the raider's camp the night before, but since this was a patch of Sundermount unfamiliar to all of them, the decision had been made to attack in the morning. Isabela and Hawke had left to see if the raider's numbers had swelled in the night, and as Fenris burst out from the brush above the camp, he could see that they had—an that Isabela and Hawke were in peril.

Hawke was down, and Isabela stood astride his downed body, defending him fiercely as a lioness. There were only six raiders attacking her, while the others stood and watched, shouting and jeering. Fenris only watched for a moment before leaping down with a cry of rage, landing at the back of one of the rogues attacking Isabela and cutting him shoulder to stem.

Fenris kicked the body off his sword fiercely, and was immediately faced with an attacker at his front and his flank. He braced himself for a pommel blow to the side while tearing the sword out of one woman's hand, reversing his swing to claw her across the face the next. The blow did not come. Instead the man flanking him went down in a screaming mass of purple energy.

Fenris, in between one moment and the next, looked up at the bluff that'd he'd leapt from. In the early morning light, he could see the mage silhouetted in darkness, pouring electricity into his enemies.

Fenris drove his blade up into the jaw of one attacker. Isabela was obviously fading—she was bleeding from innumerable cuts. One raider, an enormous bruiser, gave her a blow with a glaive, and Isabela shouted—her left arm going limp. Fenris fought to get through to her—her head snapped back from another blow, but she was holding her ground—Fenris tasted fear in his mouth then. Was Hawke dead? There was no way he could reach her in time. Fenris' back arched as the agony from his markings filled him, and with a pain-filled yell he reduced another raider to pieces.

A fireball engulfed the enemies to Fenris' left, and Fenris' eye caught a glimpse of green from the corner of his eye.

“Hey!” A familiar voice shouted, “Hey—argh,” and Fenris grit his teeth, because of course Anders would slide down the slope when he saw them struggling, of course he would try and lure some attackers his way. The bruiser wearing down Isabela turned with surprising nimbleness and left Fenris' line of sight.

Fenris was torn—Isabela was on her last legs, but it would take three, perhaps four blows from a glaive to down Anders. He could see the image in his mind's eye vividly, of blood matting Anders hair and leaking through his green tunic. His eyes turning dull, his mouth going slack with death.

Though he could feel his own stamina waning, Fenris shouted as he lifted his sword higher, to swing it down with greater force, to try and stem his growing despair, especially as the crush of attackers around him lessened—undoubtedly they were drawn by the easier target of the mage.

The moments passed in a blue tinged blur, but Fenris jumped as the ground trembled as a concussive blast shook the ground, followed by screaming cut agonizingly short. Fenris grit his teeth and kicked one raider in the side, feeling ribs give under the impact. With a rush of relief, he beheaded the man, and finally got a clear line of sight at his friends.

Isabela had dispatched the last raider targeting her, and as Fenris watched, she slumped over Hawke's still body, digging through his coat pockets for healing potions. And Anders---

Anders was on his knees around the smoking corpses ringing him. Fenris sucked in a deep breath, and turned to Isabela, going to her side.

“Are you all right? Does he still live?” he asked her. “Drink a potion first, you'll bleed out while you help him.”

“We were made really quickly, and they took him down fast,” Isabela said. “Hold him up while I--”

Fenris hauled Hawke into a half-sitting position, and Isabela began dribbling the red liquid into his mouth.

“Any chance of Anders providing any magical healing any time soon?” Isabela asked. “My arm is fucked.”

“I think he is injured as well,” Fenris said.

“This is nugshit—ah, hello Hawke, sweetheart. Back to the world of the living, are we?”

Hawke whimpered, and Isabela drew the cork out of another potion with her teeth and gulped it down.

“I'm going to make fun of you forever for going down in the first minute, Hawke.”

“I'd like to go back to being unconscious, please,” Hawke said.

Fenris left Hawke to Isabela's less than tender mercies, and strode to where Anders lay, to where he had dragged himself to the periphery of the blast crater he had created around himself. Anders' skin was raw and red, and he was glowing softly with healing magic, face contorted. He smelled like burned hair. Fenris crouched next to him, and looked at the circle of scorched ground.

“Did you drop a fireball on top of yourself?” Fenris said after a moment.

“I put up a my strongest barrier first, then yes,” Anders said.

Fenris nodded. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes,” Anders said faintly.

Fenris moved closer, and on a whim placed his unbloodied hand on Anders' head. The hair was stiff, almost crisp, and hot. Anders quirked an eyebrow at him, but was seemingly too tired to object.

“That was boldly and bravely done,” Fenris said. “But I'm afraid your work is not done yet.”

“Ugh, those two,” Anders groaned. “Help me up.”

Fenris drew Anders up to his feet, and could feel the painful heat of his body through his clothes. Anders staggered over to the two rogues, and began pressing at the skin of Isabela's damaged arm.

“A Maker-sent vision is before me,” Hawke slurred, groping at Anders' thigh. “You are very warm, Anders.”

Fenris gently took Hawke's roaming hand and just as gently plastered it over Hawke's face. “Hawke, you'd best not speak, you are badly injured and your blood loss is showing.”

“I can get you both on your feet and then I'm tapped out,” Anders said, ignoring their shenanigans.

Anders poured every ounce of magic into the two rogues, and then they began the staggering walk back to their hastily abandoned camp. Isabela and Hawke were clinging to each other, (Isabela groaning from the amount of loot she'd liberated) while Anders took the measured steps that indicated his exhaustion. Fenris fell in by his side.

“What we were talking about earlier...” Anders said. Fenris sidled him a glance. Anders looked at him once, then sighed.

Fenris was surprised to hear that Anders even wanted to discuss this, and waited in case Anders wanted to say anything more.

But instead Anders fixed his eyes on a point in the distance, and when they reached their camp began briskly heating water and cajoling the rogues to eat and drink. Fenris was remarkably unscathed by the encounter, and as the sun rose higher in the sky, he sat and watched as his three companions crawled back into their tents.

Anders had obviously not wanted to pursue anything with him, Fenris thought to himself. Or had that sigh meant he was just too tired to consider it? Fenris resisted the urge to slump. Maker save him from mages who didn't know what they wanted. Maker save _him,_ for Fenris himself didn't know what he wanted.

It was a quiet party that made their way back to Kirkwall that afternoon. On reaching the city walls, Isabela and Hawke took their leave, but not without Hawke nearly pulling a muscle in trying to wink at the mage. But Anders good-naturedly rolled his eyes and the two rogues left, hopefully to sleep and recover (though Fenris doubted it).

If Anders had been dishevelled in the morning, he was worse now, but Fenris had no room to talk—blood and dust coated his bare feet, and sweat from the days' heat had stuck the leather of his armor to his skin. He could feel it tugging at the soft skin of his brands as he walked: not pain, but the promise of it.

Soon it was the two of them, standing in the Lowtown square—and Anders gave him a brief nod then, and disappeared into the red-gold dark of the evening, in the direction of the Undercity.

* * *

Fenris followed his feet back towards Hightown, mulling his earlier exchange with the mage. His feet were gritty and starting to ache, and he found himself almost longing for the dry heat and shaded avenues of Minrathous—almost.

The idea of his former home soured his mood. Fenris' feet slowed, and then he turned towards the Red Lantern District.

The elf at the counter did not seem surprised to see him, and took his blue token with a murmur. Fenris soon found himself in the same small stone room as before—quiet, small, and still.

Fenris began the process of stripping the armor from his chest, slowly unsticking the slick cloth of his tunic from his markings. When his skin met the air it felt hot and sensitive—like how Anders' skin had looked, red and sore from calling down fire on himself.

Fenris proceeded naked into the baths. He had always stood attendant at the baths in Minrathous, but he had never used one himself, simply stood and watched, guarded, as the wealthiest and most powerful Tevinters brokered deals or relaxed. Despite his detachment—Fenris was beginning to think he had spent many of those years in a state of frozen attention, a sheet of will like ice protecting his thoughts and feelings from being subsumed under the yoke of slavery—he had nonetheless watched carefully the use of the stone baths.

A spigot on the far wall trickled a steady flow of warm water, next to which sat a stool with a basin. Fenris took the stool, and allowed the basin to fill with warm water.

Fenris lifted the basin of water and, closing his eyes, poured it over his head, grimacing at the grit and salt that ran into his eyes and over his lips. Again and again, he lifted the basin over his head. The coolness of the air made his skin prickle, but it was a relief after the blazing heat of the day. It took a significant amount of time to get clean, and swirls of dust floated away down the drain. Fenris scrubbed with his hands roughly—his shoulders, his chest, raking his hands back through his hair until it was slick and flat, behind his ears. He sluiced dirt and water down his legs, and rubbed his feet until the skin squeaked.

Looking around, he saw a shelf with an array of small bottles, and packages of soap. The labels meant nothing, but he lifted the soaps up to his nose until he found the one he wanted—the one that smelled like comfort, like home, yet also smelled like luxury.

The soap was gold-flecked, and Fenris lifted it to his nose, filling his lungs. The spices reminded him—of a sweet, almost a syrup, really, that he would get on festival days, when Mother--

He drew a great breath then, and released it. His mother?

Frustratingly, the image receded, but he stubbornly clung to two details—he had a mother, and she would give him candy.

Fenris sighed, and went to wash his hair.

Clean, he eyed the warmer of the two baths, slightly unwilling to enter it due to the heat, and reluctantly sank into it—it would soothe his muscles, but he still winced at every inch. Gasping, he lay his head back on the edge of the bath, squeezing his eyes shut until the discomfort passed. Soon, the only sounds were the ripples of water at the edge of the bath, and the faintest sounds of activity from behind the stone walls. Hightown, in the daytime, behind a locked door—Fenris felt his muscles relax. He was safe here.

He was dozing when the door clattered open.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to finish this, the first fenders i ever wrote, even though it was AGONIZING for some reason (9 months will do that I suppose). Let me know what you think! That's it!

Fenris jerked out of his slumber immediately.

The most craven part of him whispered into his ear.

_You knew Kirkwall was dangerous, and now you are naked and helpless. You fool._

But it was no smirking slaver on the other side of the door.

Just one very hapless looking apostate. Who was turning bright red, visible in even the lowering light of the evening, filtered through the watered glass.

Fenris sat heavily down into the water, and Anders slapped a hand over his eyes.

“I'll just leave,” Anders said. “Let me just wash off charred bandit and I'll leave.”

Fenris had gotten his racing heart under control, and adopted what he hoped was a nonchalant expression. Anders peered over his fingers, and seemed to take it for an expression of acquiescence.

He strode in, not looking at Fenris. Over at the raised sleeping alcove, Anders seemed to hesitate a long moment before starting to disrobe. Fenris sank deeper into the water so that it covered his chest, and as there was nothing else to do, he watched.

Anders pulled his robe over his head, and it was caught briefly in over his head, leading him to curse softly. Anders' leggings were clean up to his navel, but they were blackened and muddy at the knees, and would have to be discarded.

Like the last time when Fenris had come across the mage here in this very bath, Fenris' attention was caught on Anders' body—this time, especially by his arms. As the man balanced the boot on the edge of the alcove, it outlined the sleek musculature of his back and shoulders. Fenris felt his own eyebrows rise. Anders was a handsome man, after all.

Anders seemed to be taking a long time with his boots, and his movements had gone from hurried to slow, almost languid. The boots were leaned against the alcove, and as the mage's hands went to his waistband, Fenris directed his eyes towards the ceiling. No need to ogle, he told himself.

Soon the only sound was that of the water spigot set in the wall, as Anders presumably washed off the dust of the day. Fenris only snapped to attention when he felt magic touch his markings.

The mage was healing the last of his scalded skin from the battle, and his magic was pooling around him, almost as if it was liquid itself. The mage then reached for a bar of soap—the myrrh scented one--and with a sigh, attacked his hair with it.

Though one question had been answered, Fenris could not help but stifle a chuckle.

Anders paused, as if waiting for a comment.

“That's not for your hair,” Fenris felt compelled to say.

“It's soap,” Anders responded, looking at him finally. He seemed to have shrugged off his shyness from earlier, and Fenris watched as soap slid down his temple to drip down onto his strong chest.

“You Fereldens,” Fenris said. “One thing I will say for Tevinter is that they have bathing down to an art. In the green bottle is what you use in your hair.”

“I like how this one smells,” Anders said, not in an argumentative way, but rather like he was genuinely wondering what Fenris was getting at.

“As do I,” Fenris said.

Cautiously, Anders reached for the green bottle, and the next moments were spent fussing with the lid with wet hands. The contents of the green bottle created a rich foam, which Anders washed away with a rinse of water from a basin. His hair was red-dark when it was wet.

Anders was true to his word and quick in washing, and soon stood, moving to gather his clothes.

“Leaving already?” Fenris said. He himself had nearly been lulled to sleep again by the sound of lapping water. He felt much more secure having someone else in the room with him. Though he spent much time alone in his home, at least that was a defensible space. Here it was almost comforting to have another person near.

“I'm not going to force you to bear my company,” Anders said. His ruined clothes were bundled in front of him, but he had been gradually relaxing as he had bathed, and looked as much at his ease as he ever was.

“Do you always come here, wash and leave?” Fenris said.

“Well, no, usually I soak a while. It's nice to be around so much water that isn't more solid than liquid,” Anders said.

“Then do,” Fenris said, gesticulating at the pool.

When Anders hesitated, Fenris said a bit acerbically,

“It's nothing I've not seen before, Anders.”

He had meant nudity in general, but as Anders pulled a face he realized that Anders was thinking of something else.

With a sigh, he levered himself out of the hot bath, and with a last gesture to the mage, he sank into the cold one, hissing between his teeth.

“Why would you get in that one?” Anders said, and the splashing alerted him that Anders had sank into the hot pool. “It's broken.”

“It is not _broken_ ,” Fenris said. “It is good for circulation to go to one pool to the other.”

“I don't understand why anyone would sit in a cold bath on _purpose,”_ Anders said.

“Hm,” Fenris said. The water really was too cold, but he was willing to sit in it to make a point.

“Fenris,” Anders said, after a moment. “You wanted me to come to your house, tonight.”

“I did,” Fenris returned. “But you gave me no answer.”

Fenris heard the water slosh, and to his surprise, a foot came into his line of sight, testing the water.

“No,” Anders said, and the foot retracted itself. “That's unbearable.”

Fenris, having reached his own limit, rose from the water, slicking his hair back when it fell into his eyes.

He looked up at Anders.

“Lyrium there too, huh,” Anders said softly, and Fenris snorted before he realized that Anders was talking about the lyrium on his forehead. Probably.

Anders was looking at him, his eyes for once being narrowed in speculation instead of anger or mockery.

When Anders bent to kiss him, there was no surprise in it.

Anders had to stoop to kiss Fenris, half in the bath as he was, and when he pulled away after the briefest brush of lips, he looked at a loss for what to do next.

“Probably should have done that before getting naked,”Anders murmured.

Fenris agreed internally, but stepped out of the bath anyway to pull Anders into a proper kiss.

Anders quailed away. “You're freezing,” he gasped, but wrapped his arms around Fenris' neck anyway, pulling him back in.

Anders was warm, almost hot to the touch, and as his fingers curled in Fenris' hair, Fenris noted that instead of the painful, unnatural warmth of scalded skin from earlier, Anders was emitting a heat that drew him to press his body fully against Anders'.

The perfuming soap had left Anders smelling rich and sweet, along with the smell of water giving him a fresh tang as Fenris bit at his neck. Anders gasped and slipped on the slick tiles.

“Be careful,” Fenris said sharply, his hands digging into Anders' hips, dimpling the scant flesh there.

“How are you not falling over? Is this an elf thing?” Anders demanded.

“I'll show you an elf thing,” Fenris said, and Anders laughed, in a way he only laughed for Hawke and Varric, a slightly hysterical, light thing. Fenris had to taste it.

They both managed to stumble over to the alcove in the wall, narrow as it was. Fenris didn't feel cold any longer—instead, he felt almost lit from within, though he had to frown when Anders pushed him down on the slab and slid atop him.

“Hello there,” Anders murmured. His hair, unbound and wet, was slicked to his forehead. Fenris could see how tired he was—Anders' arm was shaking faintly from where it propped him up on the wet marble. But Anders looked intent enough, especially when he began running running his free hand down Fenris' chest, slicking away water that had pooled in his abdomen.

“You're gawking,” Fenris said.

“I'm about to have sex for the first time in five years,“ Anders said. “I'm nervous.”

“If that is your metric, then I should be petrified,” Fenris said, nearly unwillingly.

“What does _that—_ oh.”

Fenris willed himself into stillness, as he saw the realization play out across Anders' too-expressive face.

“I thought Tevinter was all—depravity and orgies,” Anders said, finally taking to an elbow, his chest pressing against Fenris'. Fenris, in a valiant effort to make him shut up, leaned up to press his lips to Anders' but was evaded.

“It was. But not for me. I was lucky,” Fenris said, aggrieved.

For some reason, that made Anders go quiet.

“Well?” Fenris prompted. If his virginity was going to be an issue, then he was going to leave Anders to Isabela and Hawke's less than tender mercies.

“Well.” Anders responded, finally. “It's hard enough to compete with other people, but to compete with no one at all—I need to set a _standard,_ a benchmark for you.”

“Don't raise my expectations to a place where you cannot meet them,” Fenris said.

Anders rolled his eyes, and in one smooth move had shifted down Fenris' body.

Fenris tried not to gulp, or to flinch, and refused to tear his eyes away from Anders, who had paused with Fenris' legs bracketing his head. Anders idly dragged his fingertips up and Fenris' thighs, and finally focused downwards.

Fenris was almost embarrassed at his own arousal, so aching and obvious. He waited for Anders to say anything—either praise or mockery would end this, he wanted neither. Anders seemed to intuit Fenris' simmering emotions somehow, and said nothing. Instead he hooked one hand under Fenris' knee and pressed a kiss to Fenris' lower thigh.

“Anders,” Fenris said, aggrieved.

Unfortunately, Anders seemed to be in his element, and rubbed a strong thumb at the crease of Fenris' thigh instead of responding.

Fenris bent at the waist and dragged Anders back up easily.

“If you would stop being so impatient,” Anders said. “I would be able to, you know, _suck your cock_ like I was planning to.”

What he wanted…was this what he wanted?

“Sit up,” he told Anders, who with a gusty sigh, nevertheless obeyed with alacrity.

“Why are you smiling?” Anders asked suspiciously. Goosebumps were starting to prickle on his arms.

Fenris shifted towards him, until Anders' back was against the wall, and Fenris was flush against him.

Fenris trailed the back of his hand down Anders' flank, feeling cool skin and water against his hand. Anders' legs were quite long--he and Anders were almost of a height, standing, though Anders still often managed to look down his prodigious nose at him often enough.

With that thought, Fenris' hand, which had made it halfway down Anders' thigh, hitched it up.

Anders gasped as Fenris' hand trailed over him, but instead of scolding him, it tapered off into a laugh.

“And this is what you wanted? Just to touch?” Anders replied.

“I want you to be still a moment,” Fenris said. He could feel Anders' legs begin to tremble, whether from strain or arousal he could not tell. But he was busy—feeling the weight of Anders' gaze, watching the blotch of a blush spread across his chest. The newness of it all was fairly overwhelming, but Fenris took his time. Anders wasn't going anywhere.

“Fenris,” Anders murmured, and Fenris hushed him with a clumsy kiss. Anders' arms slid forward, bowing his back so as to clasp his hands behind Fenris' shoulders.

Anders gentled the kiss, turning it into a slick, sliding thing that made Fenris' jaw drop as his arousal spiked—a favor he returned by sliding his hand between them, to grasp at Anders' cock.

Anders exhaled shakily into Fenris' ear, tapering off into a breathy _ah_ as Fenris outlined his arousal. Anders' back was still bent at an angle, but he seemed to welcome the strain—he certainly looked pleased, his eyes heavy lidded and his mouth slack.

“Sometime soon,” Anders said, after Fenris' hand had set into a rhythm that was making his abdomen jump, “I hope you'll fuck me.”

Fenris' hand stuttered.

“Up against the wall,” Anders continued, his voice almost dreamy. “Not even a bookcase to lean on. You moving in and out of me...”

Fenris' eyes dipped, then rose back up. He didn't want Anders to see how much this was affecting him, even though—maybe Anders wouldn't mind, wouldn't mock him for feeling this so deeply.

He paused his hand. “How about now?”

Anders laughed, but not unkindly. Then stopped. “Did you mean the fucking or the up against the wall bit? I'd slip in here, and I'm a bit tall for you to—hold me up--”

“It would be nothing,” Fenris promised, feeling reckless and spurred on by how Anders was stumbling over his words. It wouldn't, quite, be nothing but he wasn't about to tell Anders that.

“Well, maybe later. But we can do the other thing,” Anders said, taking one hand from behind Fenris' neck to press down on his own lower abdomen.

Fenris could feel the magic burst against his skin, and a sudden slickness had them slide together perilously. Anders' hand slid downwards, further, into a long stretch, and he closed his eyes.

Fenris watched as Anders' face tensed, then relaxed. He could feel Anders' knuckles brushing against the base of his cock. There was no noticeable grimace or moue of discomfort on Anders' face, and after a suspiciously short period of time, Anders smiled and withdrew his hand, and with the other pushed Fenris back until he had space to lie down, gingerly laying his head on the cold marble.

“Go slow,” he said, and with that blessing Fenris suddenly felt both anxious and inflamed.

Scarcely daring to breathe, he carefully grasped Anders around the waist, and with a little help from Anders wiggling helpfully, he slid home.

Anders' legs tightened to his sides, then slackened as Anders let out a sigh.

“I had forgotten how this felt,” he murmured, as much to himself as Fenris, it seemed. Fenris was concentrating on saying anything stupid, like telling Anders he was beautiful.

After that, there were few words spoken, just gasps and pants. Far from feeling cold, now Fenris felt like he was on fire. Anders was soon past comprehensibility, and was stroking himself in time with Fenris' thrusts.

On a whim, Fenris slowed down to a near stop, only thrusting in again when Anders opened his eyes.

“Oh, you're a bad man, Fenris,” Anders said, and rolled up to meet him.

Fenris grit his teeth at the sensation, and it seemed to overwhelm Anders, who with a stuttered gasp shook once, and Fenris watched as he came, hand still trailing over his arousal, the other clenched in his wet ragged hair.

Fenris, unsure of the etiquette, began to withdraw.

“Are—you're not done,” Anders said, his voice hoarse. “It's all right.”

Feeling self-conscious under Anders' cleared gaze, Fenris dipped his eyes, and started to move again.

Anders' legs uncurled, and he began to thrust up as well, his sighs a breathy counterpoint to Fenris' gasps.

“That's it,” Anders murmured, stroking a hand through Fenris' rough wet hair. “You can do whatever you want.”

Fenris, his heart rabbiting in his chest, hitched Anders' legs higher up around his waist, making Anders moan. Fenris had the wild thought that maybe Anders would get aroused again, but the thought was washed away by his own coming, the feeling so overwhelming that he shook and gasped, falling to an elbow over Anders.

Suddenly, he was acutely aware of how much his knees hurt from the marble, how cold the air of the room was, and how much his body ached from the earlier battle. With as much dignity as he could muster, he collapsed on Anders.

Anders did nothing but trail his finders down Fenris' neck and back, letting him come back to his senses.

“That was amazing,” he heard Anders telling him quietly. “Maker, I'm exhausted. In fact, was this marble not so extremely uncomfortable, I'd want to stay here.”

Fenris levered himself up to sit with a pained groan. Anders was entirely too perky still.

“As a healer,” Anders continued. “I prescribe another bath, then twelve hours of sleep. Maybe,” he added, trying to catch Fenris' eyes, “A glass of wine. Fenris?”

“Sounds like a prescription I would follow,” Fenris said, trying to catch the thread of levity that Anders had started.

“As for me,” Anders added, as Fenris came to his feet and headed towards the water spigot, “Next time I can tell Hawke and Isabela to bugger off.”

Fenris turned on the spigot, and started splashing off the mess. Anders' voice had been uncertain, at the end there.

“I should hope so,” Fenris said, over the water and meeting his gaze. Anders' answering smile seemed to surprise even him, as he came to a sitting position and brushed away some of his drying hair.

“I hope you'll have the bath and the wine too,” Fenris said. He could feel his lips quirk into a returning curve.

“Well, I don't have any wine at home,” Anders said, after a moment.

“Interestingly enough, I do,” Fenris said. Isabela said he smoldered when he was angry, and he wondered if there was a way to do it when one felt strangely joyous.


End file.
